SWARMING
"Swarming," you said.
A detachment from the crowded hive
was breaking out - “a sight to see”.
A menacing word, "swarming".
But the bees, circling moth-like,
circling, were defensively winding in
like a wool-skein, softly into a ball,
winding as one by one each found
his proper place to settle
on the growing ball of bees.
It clung to the underside
of the garden table, a stalactite
of bees, sleepily alive,
becoming more pendulous,
a cone, rounding into a tender swell,
a breast, or a bee-sting magnified.
"They must know their business."
Half afraid of (as well as for)
that whispering colony
en route between hives,
we left it to the chill of night.
Morning accused our ignorance:
there lay a sprawl of fallen
bee bodies on the grass.
A child stirred them with a futile stick
to try to see the queen.
We wondered what we ought to have done
to save these silly suicides.
However, the gathering sun
informed us our minute remorse
was wasted.
The warming bees awoke,
each stirred in turn,
took in turn the spiralling air
and clustering one by one
around a table leg,
were once more
swarming.
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